Shoe Prints
by HorizonCold
Summary: Little scenes from John Watson's and Sherlock Holmes' life together. John slowly tackles his feelings. Eventual slash, J/S.
1. RoseColored Glasses

**Clue Number One: Rose-Colored Glasses**

"I uploaded our little escapade with the Sumatra rats this morning. Did you read it?"

"Unfortunately."

John frowned at his computer screen, trying his best not to glare over to where Sherlock reclined lethargically on the sofa. "What was wrong this time?"

"Oh, only all that was wrong every other time. Instead of focusing on the logical facts, you spoon fed the reader with pretty pictures and Year 4 vocabulary. Deduction is a science, not a gossip column."

Nothing got under John's skin faster than Sherlock's flippant remarks about his posts, especially since he took so much time working on them, pouring over hastily scribbled notes from crime scenes, trying to capture with mere words every intense moment of the chase, attempting to keep solution a secret until the end when Sherlock pulls the blindfolds from everyone's eyes. "I don't write to glorify your bloody deductive reasoning. I want this city to know what you do for it."

Sherlock sighed dramatically. "Why do you constantly try to force me into the role of hero?"

"It wouldn't hurt for you to see yourself how the rest of the world sees you," John replied bitterly, startled when Sherlock suddenly sprung up with that sporadic energy bestowed only to consulting detectives and starting pacing their cluttered living room, throwing his arms around haphazardly (beakers full of what John was sure to be dangerous chemicals were scattered upon every available surface) and quoting from the online journal.

"'As the shot echoed through the museum, my heart plummeted in fear for Sherlock's life,' 'I could barely stand to see the look of betrayal on Sherlock's face,' 'if there were ten more Sherlocks in London, every criminal in England would be terrified to answer their doorbell,' 'nothing makes me laugh more than watching crap telly with Sherlock,' 'I can only hope to be of continued service to a man so great and, yes, good!'" Sherlock pirouetted a final time and pointed an accusing finger in the doctor's direction, dropping the mocking tone in his voice but none of the heat. "_No-one's_ going to see me like you see me, John!"

John shrugged his unwounded shoulder, irritated with Sherlock's frustration but pacified (and secretly flattered) Sherlock could recite whole sentences from his blog. "How else am I supposed to describe my best friend?"

As if the air had been popped out of him, Sherlock collapsed back onto the sofa cushions, limbs askew and his silky housecoat billowing around his slender frame. "Exactly."

"Hmm. If you have time to waste being cryptic, you have time to pick out the beetle carcasses from my bottle of laundry detergent."


	2. Whipped

**Clue****Number****Two:****Whipped**

It had been a bad day. A mystery had been solved, a murderer had been thrown behind bars, and it had been one exceedingly bad day.

Sherlock hadn't meant to demonstrate how Mr. Clayton Rhodes had committed double patricide while his parents were taking a vacation on the coast and he was supposedly at home baby-sitting his little half-sister. At least, Sherlock hadn't meant to demonstrate how Mr. Clayton Rhodes slit his father's throat and suffocated his step-mother while standing three feet away from seven-year-old Madeline Rhodes.

Honestly, John would have scolded Sherlock if certain members of the police force hadn't harshly berated him the second little wailing Madeline was carried safely out of earshot in the consoling arms of one of the Yard's social workers. But Anderson and Donovan didn't see how quickly regret replaced adrenaline in blue-grey eyes, how nimble limbs stiffened underneath a long black trench-coat to the point of pain, or how the tiny smiling lines around Sherlock's mouth vanished as if they never existed. Anderson and Donovan and even Greg were too pained by the child's screams to separate callous disrespect from grave mistake.

Although John didn't quite sympathize with Sherlock's fascination with the perverse, he did understand how Sherlock could get so caught up in the moment. There were times in Afghanistan when he fired his gun in hot blood, his entire body thrumming along with his accelerated heartbeat, his senses hyper-attuned to every shot blast, every shout, every vibration in the ground underneath his boots, that he forgot he was killing. Killing for queen and country, but taking another man's life all the same.

Not sure how to comfort his friend who was surely spiraling into an all too common black fit of depression, but struck by an idea of how to try, John left their flat on Baker Street soon after they returned to purchase a few special groceries. Arriving home thirty minutes later, he left his flatmate slumping despondently in his favorite chair in front of the telly—in exactly the same position he had been in when John left for Tesco, television still turned off—to search the kitchen cabinets for a decent pot large enough to boil spaghetti noodles.

When the noodles were limp and drained, he dumped a jar of marinara sauce into the pot and stirred it up a bit. After spooning a large amount onto plate, he set the plate on a tray accompanied with a napkin, a can of whipped cream, and a glass of apple juice. (Or what John hoped was apple juice. The jug in the refrigerator was unlabeled and he sure as hell wasn't going to taste-test it first). Plopping the tray in front of Sherlock, he shook the can of whipped cream and pressed gently on the nozzle, circling the noodles expertly until the entire plate was covered with fluffy white clouds.

Sherlock had roused himself out of his stupor to glower at the odd concoction practically thrust in his lap, apparently not amused by his doctor's antics. "And what is this?"

"John's Whippy!" At the continued withering glare, John smiled sheepishly. "I used to make it for Harry when we were kids. Mom usually worked late so we got pretty creative when it came to scrounging up dinner."

Sherlock picked up the fork and poked dubiously at a clump of marinara. "Surely in your….childhood…ignorance, you confused whipped cream for whipping cream."

Not quite sure what whipping cream was (although it might explain why so many of his culinary projects went awry), John ignored the comment and put his hand around Sherlock's, guiding the fork to scoop up a few buried noodles. "Just try it—Harry always demanded John's Whippy after a bad day at school. It cheered her up. Not to mention you haven't eaten a bite in the last three days and I'm not going to stop bugging you until you get a substantial amount of food into your abused stomach. Eat!"

Ten minutes later, Sherlock slid back his clean plate and licked a few stray droplets of red-tinged cream from his fingers. "Disgusting. Any chance of seconds?"


	3. Whipped II

**Clue Three: Whipped II (Or How Rumors Start At Scotland Yard)**

**Have I mentioned yet I don't own Sherlock? But I do own strawberry jam and I hope if I set it as bait, an adorable army doctor will be caught in my trap come morning. **

John was surprised how quickly he and Sherlock settled into little traditions after a few months of living together. When John finished showering at night, he'd leave a fresh dry towel hanging over the curtain rod for when Sherlock bathed in the morning. When schedules allowed, they'd spend an evening hour or two watching crap telly, John sipping tea and Sherlock yelling over falsified paternity tests. If they passed by the florist's, they'd pick up a small bouquet for Mrs. Hudson and be consequently rewarded with chocolate biscuits.

Routine used to bore him, but John enjoyed these familiar moments. They let him catch his breath in-between running to save Sherlock's life, running to save his own life, running to ruin some criminal's life (not that they didn't deserve it), or running simply because his tall friend said to run.

His favorite pastime was of course the after-case celebratory meal, which was exactly what John was hoping for when Sherlock bounded out of Greg's office with a confident stride after proving their wanted thief was indeed a trained house cat. John stood up from one of Scotland Yard's infernally uncomfortable chairs, wincing as he stretched his weaker leg. "Just in time, Sherlock, Dimmock cheats at cards."

The inspector in question smiled good-naturedly and pocketed his deck of blue Bicycles. "If I didn't know better, I'd say Dr. Watson here's afraid of losing."

Sherlock scowled, "I'd rather not have my flatmate gamble away his share of the rent, and surely a fine detective like yourself could find a more suitable means of funding your fixation with London's working girls." He angled his back to the suddenly scandalized man, tone considerably more amicable as he addressed his blogger. "Lestrade is no longer in need of our services today. Dinner?"

"Starving! Where to?"

"Actually…I was hoping you would be willing to…Whippy?"

John pretended to frown and sighed, "Again already?"

After the fourth meal in a row consisting of cream-covered spaghetti starting the first time he'd introduced Sherlock to it, John had laid down a few rules concerning the popular dish. For one, he was going to cook it only once every seven days, maybe twice if Sherlock managed not to destroy anything in the flat that week. Two, Sherlock had to ask for John's Whippy, not demand it. John found to his own surprise he treasured the expectant-hopeful look on his friend's face more than the pitiable attempt at manners. Three, unless it had been a legitimately bad day, Sherlock had to beg. Because John derived endless amounts of amusement in making Sherlock beg.

Sherlock's cupid-bow lips immediately puckered into a pout. "I do occasionally concede to my basic needs, John. Especially needs essential to my survival, unless it is your intention to watch me shrivel and die—."

"I don't think you'd die if I refused to make—"

"From neglect." At John's sudden silence, Sherlock added in exasperation, "_Your _neglect!"

John cracked, his smile followed swiftly by Sherlock's beaming grin. "Alright, alright, but we'll have to pick up some more whipped cream on the way home."


End file.
